


Pay Attention (The Peacock and the Pickpocket)

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26763529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: The first true illusion Oscar creates is a peacock in his tutor's window. The bird cocks its glorious, brilliant head, and adjusts its feathers. Then it screams like a dying train.
Relationships: Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27
Collections: Remix Revival 2020





	Pay Attention (The Peacock and the Pickpocket)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemainofthewater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Pickpocket and the Peacock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139499) by [Nemainofthewater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater). 



The first true illusion Oscar creates is normal, right from the standard curriculum his tutor hauls a dozen pupils of varying talent and focus through in return for doubtless inadequate compensation. (He knows this for sure. He's watched some of the other student's lessons through the keyhole, and read the tutor's account book. He got caught, of course, but he had strewn other books around the study so nobody noticed the ledger particularly.)

The goal is to shape a bird perched in the schoolroom window. The tutor allows him to choose the type of bird.

"Crow, lark, robin, hawk, chicken, as you will," the man says in his usual harried tone. "It doesn't have to look much like the real bird. Accuracy comes later; the first step is to manifest something beyond a smudge of color or a phantom noise."

Oscar hums, a gentle two-note pattern just this side of audible, points his hand, and concentrates as hard as he can.

In the window, a peacock cocks its glorious, brilliant head, and adjusts its feathers.

Then it screams like a dying train.

Oscar carries the memory of his tutor's flinch for years afterwards: a cameo brooch in the back of his mind that he can pull out, dust off, and admire when the mood strikes him.

He doesn't know why the man was surprised.

Oscar learned very young that if he can't escape attention -- and people always notice him, no matter what he does -- then he has to make sure he controls _what_ they notice.

Look at my clothes, my hair, my smile. Paint a picture: a beautiful boy, clever but shallow, more interested in wit and jokes than anything that matters. Take that picture for truth and never look beneath the surface.

How much time and dedication does it take to create an image so lifelike on his very first try?

The best kind of illusion is the one nobody thinks to doubt.

\---------------

There is a house in Chelsea where Oscar spends most of his evenings: white marble pillars in a Neo-Classical style; a discreet guard at the door; and shining stained-glass windows with images of Zeus and Ganymede, Achilles and Patroclus, Apollo and Hyacinth, to both conceal and advertise what happens inside.

He keeps his stride proud and his clothes bright on his way there. Anyone can watch and draw whatever conclusions they like about his morals and his expenses.

It's useful to have a known vice or two, an obvious handle for leverage. He learns the most fascinating secrets from people who back him into corners and lean in to tempt or taunt.

The house is also an excellent place to meet informants, to say nothing of the excellent returns he gets from investing in one of the cooks, two of the cleaners, and three of the courtesans themselves.

But there's no sense maintaining an illusion with nobody around to watch, and equally little sense in making a scene after dark even in London Above. So Oscar mutes himself on his way home, walks swift and soft, and hums under his breath in a little nudge of 'look over there, my word how interesting' to slide prying eyes aside. If they do happen to see, well, a tired and disheveled man departing that particular house is nothing new or noteworthy.

This night, someone refuses to be distracted: a nagging itch of attention in a way and place and time he wasn't expecting, isn't under his control.

Oscar pauses and hums a different tune, checking for magic. Nothing worth speaking of beyond charms on the streetlamps and the gentle glow of amulets and baubles within the neighboring houses. But no magic isn't at all the same as no danger, so he peers into the shadows, following the itch between his shoulders until he sees the too-thin child in a too-large coat perched on a roof across the street, everything about them screaming they belong to an Other London gang.

The child frowns down at him, then flinches as they realize he's caught them.

Oscar smiles. Is Other London watching? Then he'll give this lookout something worth seeing, a grand finale to this show.

He raises a hand and snaps his fingers.

No peacocks this time, just a meadowlark, singing as it flies until, one wingbeat away from the child's hand, it winks and bursts into colored sparks that drift down and fade away.

Oscar finds another way to spend his evenings.

\---------------

Catching and redirecting attention requires paying close attention of his own to the people around him. And so Oscar spots the pickpocket before they reach for his signet ring. Not long before -- the child, Other London to the bone, has clearly been working the crowd for a while but he only sees them steal an ostrich feather -- but long enough to have his free hand ready to grab and hold.

"Ah, ah," he chides lightly. "I'm afraid I need that."

The child looks up, face a blank mask with an edge of nerves. "I don't know what you mean. If you don't let go of me, I'll--"

Oscar smiles. "I doubt that you'll do anything. Not if you don't want to go to prison for a very long time. Which would be a pity, considering."

He's learned more about Other London since that night in Chelsea. He'd like to invest in some eyes and ears below, and this pickpocket seems like an inexpensive risk. A child skilled enough to lift treasures, but still with enough whimsy to prefer a feather over the jeweled fruits pinned next to it on the hat it formerly graced. The incongruity is charming, and makes him itch to peer closer.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the child says, voice so shrill and loud that people start to turn and stare.

‘Nothing to worry about,” Oscar says, not taking his eyes off the pickpocket, “Just my nephew deciding to play a little trick on his dear, old uncle.”

See what I want you to see. The oldest trick in the world, and the child plays along.

As the crowd turns away, satisfied they understand the scene, Oscar reaches into his pocket. The pickpocket tenses, sets their feet to run, so he slows and exaggerates the motion as he pulls out the box of chocolate bonbons he'd bought for his newest fling (dreadful bore, that man, but suspiciously well-informed about cross-Chanel trade links, to say nothing of his other talents).

The child's attention is fixed on the box. Oscar drops their wrist, unties the red silk ribbon, and offers it on the palm of his hand.

“What is it?” the pickpocket asks suspiciously.

‘Why don’t you open it and find out?” he suggests with a grin.

The child scowls. “Maybe I will!" They grab the box, pause, and then reverentially lift the lid. It's obvious they have no idea what they're seeing or smelling.

"Chocolate bonbons," Oscar informs them. "Do you want one?"

At the pickpocket's silent but vehement refusal, Oscar frowns. What kind of life leaves a child -- eleven? twelve? surely no older than thirteen -- with reflexive suspicions it took him years to acquire, despite his cynical temperament.

He pops a bonbon into his mouth and savors it, lets his enjoyment show almost the same way he would in front of their intended recipient

“They were meant to be a gift for a, er, friend, but I’m sure that you’ll appreciate them more,” he says, “Perhaps we can trade? The chocolates for some of those items you appropriated.”

Slowly, the pickpocket inches one hand forward, then grabs a bonbon and shoves it into their mouth. Their surprise and pleasure is written all through their face and posture, and they immediately shove two more into their mouth. Then the child carefully closes the box and clutches it like a greater treasure than whatever they stole before the feather.

Oscar offers the red silk ribbon, but the pickpocket shakes their head and says, "You do it." Well, what would a child of Other London know about tying fancy bows? Slipknots and makeshift handcuffs seem more in keeping with that place. So he snaps his fingers and makes it a show: a little flash of light, a puff of warm chocolate scent, and the feel of powdered sugar on the tongue, and at the end the ribbon is tied in a perfect bow.

The pickpocket nods and pockets the candy. Then they hand over the rest of their loot: respect for a deal is an excellent sign.

Affiliation with Barrett Racket is less auspicious, but despite that Oscar gives the thief his name and a smaller ring: a silver snake eating its tail, with a small emerald set as one eye. Not every seed he plants will sprout, but if this one does... now that would be a glorious trick indeed.

\---------------

Five years later, he returns to the Meritocratic headquarters to find a gawky teenage girl in sweat-soaked, bloodstained clothes waiting on his desk, a silver-and-emerald ring clutched in her hand like a weapon. Nobody at reception warned him of a guest. The pickpocket got past them all unnoticed.

That kind of skill takes time and dedication to learn.

The kind of desperation that drives a pickpocket to cut off a finger, and an Other London child to seek a Meritocratic agent for aid... well, that's the question, isn't it?

Oscar closes his office door -- no need to pull attention before he knows the script -- and smiles.


End file.
